The Coin Landed Tails Up
by aletheakatherine
Summary: She sees James when she looks at Rogers; and Rogers when she looks at James. But maybe there's a reason for that. Post Captain America: Civil War. Diverges from canon.
1. We Drowned Our Scars in Blood

"Why?" he asks, eyes on the glimmering shield in the corner. "Why?"

She looks at him. He doesn't look back. That's okay; he doesn't _need_ to look at her to feel her eyes boring into her back; doesn't need to look at her to know that she's sorry (but is she? Is she really? Or is she just sorry she's in this mess in the first place?). "Clint," she says softly, to the man behind her - _to her best friend_ \- "could you…"

He shifts position, just enough for her to hear the way his feet scuff against the floor, the hiss of the arrows on his back gliding against each other in their sheath. She lets out a little sigh. She doesn't want to do this in front of him, not really - not so much because she particularly wants to be alone with Captain America, but because it's easier to deal with one at a time. She can't handle two of them at once, staring her down like she's a criminal, expectant, waiting for - for _what?_ An apology? But it's their fault, too, they were a bigger part of all of this than she was; if not for Steven Grant Rogers and his goddamn _conscience -_

Conscience. That's what this is all about. She's been told she doesn't have one.

 _Are you ready for the world to see you as you truly are? Behind all of the masks, all of the alter egos, all of the coverups: are you ready for them to know you as the spy, as the tool of the Red Room, as the Black Widow who isn't afraid to bite? Natalia Alianovna Romanova, your history, stained with red - you can never wash it away -_

 _Iron and steel, metal cutting through skin. All a part of life. Too much a part of_ her _life - the music of gunfire, the melody of screams, and people dying, everywhere, all around her; and she doesn't just stand by and watch them die...she_ helps _them die, murders them in cold blood - well done, Black Widow, well done, bravo...you completed the kill list -_ again _-_

 _Natalia Alianovna Romanova -_

 _Call me Natasha. Natasha Romanoff._

 _What did you say, Black Widow?_

 _Natasha -_

 _Nat. Nat._ Nat -

She doesn't even realize she's moved until she's at the threshold of the door, Captain Rogers' hand tight around her bicep, fingers boring into her skin. " _Nat_ ," he says again, roughly. "I didn't say we were done." He looks over at Clint, planted in the corner of the room, arms knit tightly over his chest. "Clint…"

Barton turns suddenly sheepish. "Um, right, of course. I'll get going. Call me if you need me, Cap?"

Rogers turns back to Natasha. "Of course." Motionless, still, unmoving as Barton closes the door behind him, the lock clicking in its dock with a little _shckkk_. She keeps her eyes on the floor - careful. If she looks up at him, she might start crumbling again, and she doesn't want him to see her weakness - doesn't want _anyone_ to see her weakness, but Rogers most of all, because he's the leader, and if he knows, then...then _everybody_ will know, because he'll start going easy on her, think of her as one of the ones who needs protecting, and -

And then, suddenly, pain lances through her back, up her spine, and the bare skin at her waist collides with the sharp, icy chill of the wall. He's holding her too tight - _god, it hurts_ \- fingers pressing deep, _deep_ into her shoulders, and she's sure she'll have a good set of new bruises after they're done. That's okay. She's used to bruises. And she knows Rogers doesn't intend to hurt her anyway, since -

 _Fight her, Winter Soldier. Fight her._

 _Yes, sir._

 _James -_ James -

 _Cold. The metal of his hand is so cold, so rough, digging into her skin, into her shoulder blades; she's supposed to be strong, stronger than this, but it's so hard, staring into those eyes - eyes that glare into her with an intensity that's almost physical, eyes that burn like fire, eyes as dark as night. He won't hurt me, she thinks, but she's wrong. James wouldn't hurt her, no. But the Winter Soldier? The Winter Soldier isn't about to hold back. He is a different person. This - this man - this man is_ not _James._

 _He hits her, hard. Metal arm. She barely gets her hands up in time to try and block it, and it still contacts with her face anyway, metal ripping lines of blood across her cheeks. James. James. I have to hurt you - I'm sorry - you hurt me, and now I'm going to have to hurt you, too, please don't do this, please don't make me -_

 _Idiot. Idiot. You are not Natalia. You are the Black Widow. Fight._ Fight!

 _The next time he raises his fist to strike, she twists sideways - away from his flesh arm, towards his metal one - and slips out from underneath him, coiling her legs around his waist - oh, they've practiced this position before - flipping him over, arms around his throat, tight, tight, as tight as she can manage. You asked for it, bastard, she thinks. Now this is what you get._

 _Not Natalia and James, but the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier. From friends and lovers to enemies of mutual hate. From dark of night to bright of day._

 _He claws at her gloved hands desperately, staggering back - and then, abruptly, he slams her against something rock hard, rams himself backward so she's caught between him and the ground - shit shit shit - and then he's flipped over so he's crouching over her, panting, chest heaving, eyes black, and she snarls at him, catlike, writhing so her wrists twist in the iron grip of his hands, gasping in hisses of breath as the metal cuts into her skin. The Winter Soldier. He is the Winter Soldier. She is the Black Widow._

 _She is the Black Widow, and she is stronger than this._

 _And she sneaks out from under him - like always - and flips him over, kneeling over him, and her hands close around her throat; his breath convulses in his chest, once, twice, and he gasps, struggling, but her hands are so tight - too tight - and her thighs are closed around his waist, pinning him down, knees pressing hard into his ribs. So here we are, Winter Soldier. You and me. I'm always the victor, aren't I? When they ask about your bruises, tell them it was the Black Widow. Tell them the Black Widow did it._

 _His eyes flash, and begin to close._

 _That's right, Soldier. Give up. It's hopeless. You're never going to win, because I'll never let you. You know it, don't you? Of course you do._

" _Black Widow," a dismembered voice calls, from somewhere far, far away. "Black Widow, that is enough. You have won."_

 _She doesn't look over; just bares her teeth, staring down at the face of her vanquished Soldier. Hers - he is hers. She has defeated him. Defeated him at last, after years of training, years of torture, years of pitting her against her best friends - killing her best friends, because when it comes to the Black Widows, only one could ever survive -_

" _Black Widow! Let him go."_

 _Silly man. You don't need him. You only need me. But she lets him go anyway, releases his throat, watching through half-lidded eyes as he coughs, mutters obscenities in Russian. His throat already has slender red marks from where her fingers were. He rubs them with his big hands, as if he's trying to coax the fight back into his lungs, back into his ravaged body. Too late, Soldier. Too late._

 _He looks at her, staring, his expression unreadable. She smiles - one of her trademark, sly smiles, the one that says I won and you know it, aren't you proud? And yes, yes, he is proud, because he was her teacher and his teaching has finally paid off - she has surpassed him - and yet he's angry, he hates her, hates her because she has made him look like a fool in front of the only people who can keep him alive - and suddenly he's rearing, rearing up like a snake, ready for another fight -_

 _His lips collide with hers._

 _They taste of iron, metallic like blood; they taste of scars and laboratories and serum, of nightmares and torture and death. They taste hopeless, scarred. Ready for defeat. It makes it easier for her to conquer him this time, makes it easier to make him hers, makes it easier to watch the fight leave his eyes and turn to hopeless, helpless lust. She doesn't even have to try anything new today - slides her hips against his, hands running across all of his new scars, new bruises, new claw marks, lips pressing blood against his throat -_

And she starts talking.

"I knew him, Steve, I _knew_ him - he was in the Red Room with me, the Winter Soldier, and he trained me so I'd pass all of the Black Widow trials - so I'd beat out the other girls - and Steve...do you know why he did it? He did it because he loved me, because he was _in love with me_ , even if the only part of me he loved was my body -" She takes a breath, eyebrows deepening into a frown, eyes dark. "He knew me, and I knew him. And I thought he'd recognize me, but he didn't. But I recognized him. I thought I did, anyway. I knew he was capable of Vienna, because I've seen him work, up close. He can be so gentle and caring, Steve, until he turns around and starts _murdering_ people - and I'm the same way. That's why we understood each other so well, because we're the same. That look he got in his eyes, the black anger, I knew that look, and I saw it when he fought me. And he - I thought he wasn't worth it. I thought you were trying to save a murderer. But at the Quinjet - I remembered the person you are, and that you wouldn't...you wouldn't do those things, wouldn't save him unless you had a reason, so I let you go. But I still couldn't help you, Steve. I couldn't stand up for more people dying, like Sokovia, like New York. I've killed too many people already, and James - the Soldier - isn't afraid to kill more."

And then she leaves.


	2. We Hit the Target (Off the Mark)

Her room is quiet. She likes it that way. No distractions.

But it isn't enough for her today. Today, she needs the gym, needs the sweat cloaking her shoulders and plastering the thin cloth of her workout clothes to her skin. Needs the rhythm of her movement, the sting of her knuckles against his punching bags, the burning in her stomach, the fire in her eyes. She needs to forget what she saw last night - Captain Rogers, alone in the hall, distracted. They have missions. Rogers can't be distracted; he's the leader, the man who keeps them all going, and if he's distracted, then the Avengers will fall to pieces.

Okay, it's not quite _that_ simple. To be fair...he had a reason to be distracted.

Sharon Carter.

Peggy's niece. The beautiful, bikini-model blonde, all leggy and unscarred, the very girl who Natasha had seen in the hallway last night, pressed up against the captain, lips tracing patterns on his neck, hands tracing patterns on his chest. They'd been in the elevator landing when Natasha came back from a training session with Clint. They hadn't even noticed her when she passed.

Distractions.

She hits the bag again. Something moves in the corner of her eye - Clint? Probably Clint; he's started to get back into the habit of training at the same time as her, even if he's not actually training _with_ her. It feels good, getting back into the swing of being best friends, getting back into the swing of normalcy - although, admittedly, _normal_ isn't really applicable when it comes to Natasha Romanoff. Normal has never been applicable for the girl with the serum in her veins and the blood on her hands, for the girl who kissed James and tried to kill the Winter Soldier, for the girl who lives a constant lie. But this - it almost feels like it _could_ be normal, just her and Clint working out in a normal gym at the bottom of a normal tower -

It hurts. It hurts, that only Clint and her come down here anymore, that her one and only family has ripped itself apart at the seams, and even now, months later, they haven't yet repaired themselves. There's still those silent, silent moments when Wanda tears up and stares at Vision like he's a ghost, and he offers back timidly, _paprika?_ ; when Iron Man shoulders past Captain Rogers, quips something sharper than usual; when Rogers spends hours a day comforting Wanda in her room; when Tony stares Natasha down like she's a criminal. And it hurts. There's a rift between them, an invisible canyon, and it widens with every day, every hour, every passing second.

But...it's okay. It's okay, because she is the Black Widow, and she doesn't need a family, or friends - all she needs is herself, cold and brutal and alone. She is not a dependent; she is an individual. It's all she's ever known.

"Anger," Clint says suddenly.

She looks up, hands steadying the bag swinging in front of her, wordless.

"You're angry," Clint clarifies. "You need to take it out somehow. Here." And he holds his hand out - automatically, Natasha reaches out to take it (the fighting ring, he's offering her a boxing match, right?) when, instead of warm, work-toughened skin, her fingers meet the cool smoothness of...of _his bow?_

She looks down, then up again.

"It's calming," Clint says. "Shooting. And you're good at it."

Correction: she _was_ good at it - hasn't done it in forever now. "Clint...it's your _bow_." She knows how much he loves that thing, how protective he is of it. And some little part of her, deep down inside, twists queasily at the thought of using it, because it's always been her last resort. Bows and arrows were never really her thing. She is a creature of guns and bullets.

"You need it more than I do, Little Red," Clint says quietly, pressing it into her palm, closing her fingers around its length.

She watches him for a long time, coolly. "Okay," she says at last, weighing the bow in her hand. It feels different than the last time she felt it. It's one of his older bows, one of the ones Tony prettied up recently, and she can feel the slight shift in balance, the way it feels more agile in her fingers even though it's also heavier. She turns towards the target, spots it across the room, exactly where it's always hung - and stops. She's missing something.

"Arrows," she says, shaking her head at her own neglect. She'd almost forgotten about the _arrows_.

Clint grins gleefully. "Was wondering when you'd ask, Little Red..."

" _Don't_ call me that -"

"...but, you know, you never asked nicely," he finishes, unstrapping the sheath from his back, planting it on the ground between his feet and leaning on it with both hands, eyebrows cocked. She lets out an exasperated sigh. Clint and his foolery. Ah well...she'll have to play along this time.

"Clint...can I have the arrows?"

"It's _may_ I," Clint smirks. "Try again, hot shot."

" _May_ I have the arrows?" She rolls her eyes at Clint's stillness. " _Please_?"

"That's a little better." He shrugs. She sighs again.

"Beloved human perfection and best friend of mine, oh great Hawkeye of the perfect eyesight and indefatigable aim, the greatest archer and best shot the world has ever seen, would you _please_ yield your sheath of god-given arrows to my humble hands?"

He stops for a long moment, considering. "Indeed," he says at last. "I yield them to your humble hands."

" _Thank_ you." She takes the first one, draws it against the bow, centers the wavering tip of the arrow so it lines up a direct shot to the tiny dot in the center of the target; lets her fingers tighten on the arrow... _one, two, breathe in, release_ -

The door opens. Behind her, Clint lets in a little gasp.

The arrow twists at the last minute in her fingers, lands an inch or so off the mark. She huffs in frustration and turns to Clint, frowning; but he's not looking at her - he's just staring at the door, which is now _closed_ , behind the curvy figure of a tall, nicely dressed blonde - blonde with blue eyes and a gun at her hip - Sharon...why is Sharon here? She looks back at Clint for an explanation, but he just shakes his head wordlessly. And then he says something she never would've expected.

" _Hot._ "

She doesn't hesitate - turns around, slamming the bow into his chest with unnecessary force, and stalks off in the other direction. "You're _married_ ," she adds over her shoulder. "With children. You can't have Sharon, Clint."

She's almost at the door when she catches his response.

"No, but that doesn't mean I can't _look_ at her."

She laughs. "No, you can't. She belongs to Rogers." And Captain America has standards. She tells herself that as she retraces her footsteps, back to her room - tells herself that despite Vienna, despite the Winter Soldier, despite Captain Rogers' open disregard for his superiors, despite his blatant insubordination and neglect of the law. But is she any different? Would she have done any different, in his place?

" _I have helped you, my Widow. I have made sure you are the one to live. Would you do the same for me, for your Soldier, if you were in my place? Would you have risked your blood to save my life?"_

 _She runs her tongue across her lip, tasting blood, licking it away like it's candy. His hands are tight on her wrists - so tight they hurt...he's surprisingly strong for someone who's just been defeated. Surprisingly strong for a loser. Or maybe - maybe she's just surprisingly weak for a victor, weak for a girl, weak for the Red Room. She reaches up with one hand, pulls the cloth away from his mouth so she can run her fingers across the rough edges of his chapped lips, feel his stubble prickle at her fingertips. His eyes flutter at her touch. This is what she is best at - seduction. They never see her coming until she's already inside their pants. It's her greatest strength._

 _His eye is black. That's her fault._

" _I would do anything for you, my Soldier," she whispers, Russian accent thickening the syllables of her English. It's their special language, English - it feels blasphemous to speak it within the walls of a facility that is so thoroughly Soviet. "You know I would. I would give my life to protect yours, Winter Soldier. You are mine, and I will not let them take from me what is mine. You are my James, and I -"_

" _You lie," he cuts her off, jerking her hands away. "You lie. You are a witch -"_

 _No. No. He's slipping away - she can't let him slip away...she reaches out, pulls him close again, feeling his shoulders ripple beneath her palms. "I would never lie to you, James! I would never dare -"_

" _We are based on fear, Natalia. That is all we are. You only follow my lead because you are fearful."_

 _She shakes her head. "No. I am ambitious. I do not fear you, Soldier, but I know what is good for me, and you are the best I can do. I stand on your shoulders. Without you I would be nowhere. You are mine -"_

" _Why have you done this to me, Natalia? Why do you make me look like a fool?"_

 _She hesitates, suddenly quiet. That thought hadn't really occurred to her - the idea that he would be angry at her for winning, that he would hate her for being the victor. "You said that was what you wanted," she says, ever so softly. "You said you wanted me to win."_

 _He stares, eyes hollow. "I did," he says slowly. "I did."_

 _She shakes her head. "I love you, James."_

 _He nods, looks up. "I know. I know you do, Natalia, but you do not love me as I love you. Your ambitions cloud your view of the world. I know how you see me - as an ally when you had other enemies; as an enemy when you have other friends. I was only a stepping stone on the path to your glory. You would not risk anything for me, and you know it."_

 _He's right, she thinks. But she doesn't want him to know it._

" _I love you, James," she says instead. "I love you…"_


	3. In a Good Mirror, Our Reflection is True

Lies and lies and lies. Why is she so good at lying? So good at deception?

 _Because you are a lie, Natalia Alianovna Romanova. That is all you will ever be._

Is that why she didn't stand up for him, after Vienna? Why it took her so long to stop fighting, why it took Rogers to bring her to her senses, to stop her from hurting them both? Because she was a lie, and her love for James was a lie. Maybe that's why he nearly strangled her, why he didn't react when she asked if he recognized her. Maybe it's because he never knew her, never really knew her, because all that time, she was nothing but a deception, a mask, an actress playing her act -

She twists her hands around the base of her coffee cup, feeling the paper chafe at her skin. _Warmth. Life. Comfort._ She needs some of that, some of those things she was supposed to give James, some of those things she's supposed to be giving to her teammates (even though she's horribly, ridiculously bad at it). At least the coffee warms her up, revivifies her, comforts her. It's not real, but she isn't, either, so it's enough.

 _Remember Hydra?_ She asks herself that a lot. How she and Rogers went outside the law for the sake of mankind, how she exposed herself to the world and blew all of her covers just because she wanted to do _what was right_. She'd finally managed to shed the Black Widow who only ever did what she was told - who only ever did what others wanted her to do. And now, she's back to obeying orders. Back to being scared of her own conscience. But Rogers? No - he is as he always was. That's what makes them different. He stands up for his friends, and for his conscience. But Natasha doesn't. _Would she have done any different, in his place?_ She _was_ in his place - James was her friend, too; maybe more than just a friend - and she didn't do what Rogers did. She cowered.

"Are you ever scared?"

Natasha looks up. It's Wanda Maximoff, sweater pulled tight around her shoulders, coffee cup in hand. Everybody seems to love Tony's newest brew.

"Scared of what?"

Wanda shrugs. "Your reflection. Your own shadow."

 _Your reflection?_ Natasha's reflection. What would be scary about Natasha's reflection -

" _We can't keep replacing the mirrors, Romanoff. I know it's hard, but you're going to have to learn to cope."_ Maria Hill's voice, right after Clint first brought Natasha to Shield. All of the mirrors ended up smashed to pieces within the first two hours. That was Natasha's fault. In her defense, she hadn't slept for days - _how could she?_ Her nightmares - but it wasn't an excuse. It was still her fault.

"Yes," she says slowly. "I...I used to hate mirrors." She looks at Wanda, smiles. Wanda's just a kid. So young, so small, so uncertain. Natasha was like that once. "But you learn to get over it, eventually."

Wanda nods. "Does Captain Rogers ever scare you?"

 _Oh..._ that's unexpected. "Rogers?" She shrugs. "Not really. Why?"

"He's so...so _good_ ," Wanda says quietly. "So righteous. I don't know how to be like that."

Natasha opens her mouth to answer...and is promptly stopped by the sound of Rogers' voice. "I'm not as perfect as you think, Wanda. I just do what I can." He walks over until he's practically touching Natasha's shoulder, coffee in hand. "I appreciate the flattery, but really I just do what I think is right."

Natasha swallows another gulp of coffee. "That's the best any of us can do, isn't it?"

Steve nods slowly, puts his hand on Natasha's shoulder gently. "I need to talk to you, Nat. It shouldn't take long...I just need a few minutes."

She stares at him for the longest moment before nodding. "Okay," she says.

It comes out like a whisper. Disoriented. And then something strange happens - for a split second, in Rogers' place, she sees Bucky standing before her - _James_ : dark eyes holding her captive like a vise, mouth furrowed in a half-frown, hair curtaining rugged brows; and then it passes, and it's Rogers again, just Rogers, _because you lost James, Natalia, you lost him long ago; he was never yours to keep…even though he was mine, mine, MINE!_ She wants to say it, wants to scream the words at the top of her lungs, but instead, what comes out is - "You can't be distracted."

He stares.

"Rogers...you're our captain. Our leader -" _even though Tony would have it otherwise -_ "and you need to focus on our mission -"

"As if you haven't been distracted lately yourself," he retorts softly - and then remembers Wanda is there. "C'mon, Nat. We're going to take this somewhere else, alright?" His eyes flick over her shoulder, to where Wanda sits, still nursing her cup of coffee. Black, with no cream. Typical.

"She isn't a kid, Rogers," Natasha says. "She can hear whatever it is you have to say."

"She _is_ a kid -"

"She is, but she isn't. Some of us never had the luxury of a childhood, Rogers, did you know that? We had to live like adults from start to finish, no matter our age. We had to _survive_." Survive in the darkness, in the blackness, lost and alone - _tunnels and tunnels and tunnels, and endless games; the thunderclap of bullets, and somewhere, a stifled scream; kill lists written in blood -_

"Natasha, we are _not_ going to do this here." He pauses, looking her straight in the eyes with that expression that makes it impossible to look away. She hates it, the way he always looks so cool, so calm, so level. She hates the gravity. She hates how it's almost physically impossible to break eye contact.

"Rogers -"

"It's Steve. And that's an order." He gives her a crooked smile. "Straight from the mouth of your captain."

He turns, and walks away. She follows.

Maybe it's chance, that it's Rogers who walks before her and not James, that it's Rogers who gives her orders and not James, that it's Rogers who makes her insides boil as he kisses the blonde by the elevator and not James. Maybe, if the coin had landed differently, she'd have gotten James, and could have kept him. But chance never favors her, and it hasn't favored her this time. The coin landed tails up, and she's stuck with Rogers.

She doesn't want him.

She doesn't want him, because it's impossible to be around him, because he's so good - so flawless - that it almost physically hurts. James had flaws. James understood. James was hurt, and broken, and scarred, just like Natasha; but Rogers is none of those things. He is scarred, but the scars always fade. He is broken, but the breaks always heal. He is hurt, but the hurt always vanishes with time. He is the idyll of humanity, and it makes it even harder to admit that she betrayed him, that she turned against him. It makes it impossible to make up for it. With James, she never had to make up for anything. The injustices they did each other always ended up evening out. But with Steve -

And yet...when she looks in his eyes, she sees James. She sees bits and pieces of James hidden inside Steven Grant Rogers, and maybe that's why she can't figure out how to let go. Maybe that's why it hurt to watch him with Sharon. Maybe that's why - that's why she ran with him, back in Washington, D.C., maybe that's why she betrayed SHIELD, betrayed her own government, betrayed her own country. Because she was seduced by the James that lives on within Steve -

She has lost James, but Steve is still here, and she clings to him, clings to what she has left -

But she knows that's not entirely true. Knows it's not true because she knows that she loves Steve, too, as a man completely independent of James Buchanan Barnes - loves Steve not as a dependent, but as an individual. She loves him precisely because he _is_ so dauntingly good, because he became a criminal to do the right thing - and that's why she ran with him, in D.C. That's why she helped him escape in the Quinjet, even when everyone told her that he was the villain, he and James.

The Quinjet. She didn't just do it for Steve. She didn't just do it for James. She did it for both of them.

"I'm sorry, Steve -"

"Don't."

She freezes, staring. "What?"

"I'm not asking for an apology, Natasha. I wanted to say thank you for not stopping us. Thank you for trusting me. Seeing you stop Black Panther like that - it reminded me all of the reasons why I've always admired you so much, for standing up to everything you've ever known, everything you were sculpted to be."

She swallows. "Thank you."

He smiles. "And maybe that will help explain Bucky, too. You only know the part of him the Red Room trained. But Bucky's a good person, Nat. He's like you. He knows how to stand up to what he's been taught. He knows how to think for himself. I think you can understand that."

"Yeah," she says slowly. "I think...I think I can."

He nods. "Good. And the other thing...Sharon was talking to me the other day. You remember D.C., don't you?"

"...yes."

"You hung on to the mission like it meant more than life. You were determined. Fierce. You remember that too, yes?" He reaches out, puts both hands on her shoulders, smile broadening until it reaches his eyes. "You're a very special friend, Natasha. The things you've done are incredible. The determination, the stubbornness, the ability to piss everybody off all the time -"

"Language, Captain," she chides, smirking.

"Oh, shut up," he laughs. "My point is...I'm going to need you to do that again."

"Do what again?"

He watches her for a long, long time. "You're not gonna like it, Romanoff."

"Try me," she says.

"...I need you to get Bucky back, and to not let him go this time."

She watches him for an equally long time. "I think I like that just fine," she says.

"Good. Then you shouldn't have any trouble getting him here by the end of the week. I'm going to need him again soon."

She nods. "You and me both."

And he leaves.

* * *

She leaves on the Quinjet later that week. Before she goes, Sharon pulls her aside.

"Don't let go of Bucky, once you find him," she says to Natasha, blue eyes flashing. "But Nat...don't let go of Steve, either. Alright?"

"Alright," she says, and guns the engines.


End file.
